


Bad End

by gaytoxe



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Mentions of Blood, postgame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-31 20:21:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21151655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaytoxe/pseuds/gaytoxe
Summary: And will he ever get better, he thinks, sloppily raising his arm for his soon-to-be last glass of whiskey that night, eyes closing for too long and fluttering open slowly as he watches the bartender stare at him.He laughs a tired, exhausted laugh, one full of the same drinks and the same schedule and the same goddamn house full of the same fucking bottles he’s too lazy to touch again.





	Bad End

**Author's Note:**

> hi, meredith here- more postgame kaito; nothing new!
> 
> if you liked this fic, i also have a tumblr if you wanna see more and maybe talk about oumota or anything i write! look for @gaytoxe on tumblr.

Getting out of the hospital wasn’t the taste of freedom that Momota exactly imagined. It felt the same as waking up to white walls— a prison— and it didn’t matter about physically or mentally because it was both.

He smiles and he assures Shuichi and Maki he’ll be in touch, but staring at his phone, he hasn’t even texted them once.

It didn’t stop them from texting him, asking him how he was doing, but when he’s reminded of what he would have to tell them if he said how he really felt, how the churning in his stomach starts to curl and gnaw at his insides, how fucking terrible he thinks of himself, how the nightmares and insomnia from all those eyes staring at him when he walks down to street just to get a fucking beer, desire contorts to fear and he can’t move his fingers to push even one letter.

Setting the phone down, his head falls into his hands and tears form behind his eyelids, threatening to escape them and roll down his cheeks as he thinks about what a fucking mess he is.

And will he ever get better, he thinks, sloppily raising his arm for his soon-to-be last glass of whiskey that night, eyes closing for too long and fluttering open slowly as he watches the bartender stare at him.

He laughs a tired, exhausted laugh, one full of the same drinks and the same schedule and the same goddamn house full of the same fucking bottles he’s too lazy to touch again.

Momota won’t get better. God, he wasn’t better enough for everyone else.

Not good enough, never good enough, never will be good enough. Something he’s known for a while.

And yet, as he sits there, a burning sensation in his throat, his brain continues to babble on to him about who he wasn’t.

His fault. His stupidity. His weakness. Your weakness. Your failure to succeed has brought you here, and it’s the only reason why you’re so fucking hopeless.

Because you failed to be the person they wanted, no, needed you to be, you will never be the person you need to be, as if you even deserve to want to be something.

He sits on that same thought and gulps down the whiskey, stands up, and walks to his car, driving back home to that same house full of the same fucking bottles.

And he grabs another one from the fridge, letting the same nauseating taste fill his taste buds and slip down his throat, refusing to get up again when there’s no need to.

-

It’s been a while since Momota’s seen the autumn leaves, and stepping outside of his cluttered house, knocking a few empty bottles over in the process, it’s cloudy and his spine shivers just a little.

Mixes of crimson, yellow and brown adorn the sidewalk he strolls on, hands stuffed in his pockets, knowing it’ll soon turn to dimly lit lights and dark floors. Grabbing a beer is the only time he ever walks anymore, and this time, it’s no different.

But he passes by the bar, and he keeps walking, thinking about all the wrongs he’s done to everyone by not being strong enough for them.

Every death, every act of hopelessness, every thought on everyone’s mind that they weren’t actually anyone anymore was his fault, all on him for the weakness that previously laid dormant in his heart, now showcasing itself proudly to the world for everyone to see. None of the therapy he was given could ever change how much the whole world could see inside him and how just considering it caused his body to shake to the core with vulnerability.

And then he thinks, was that really him? That seemingly big shining star whose fake shine masked insecurities and envy?

You don’t deserve to even be associated with the word hero. Even strong is a generous offer towards the awful excuse of a human being called Kaito Momota.

The title Luminary Of The Stars doesn’t fit him now, and when he thinks about it, it never did.

But it’s not just his envy or how weak he is, because when it’s only the calm before the storm— the hangar.

Anytime he breathes, it’s the same goddamn air that’s stuffy and doesn’t smoothly flow down his esophagus. It’s the air he wishes he didn’t have to inhale but knows he deserves for all that he’s done.

Pressing that button, finger making contact with something that seemed so small of a task but rammed him in the gut all the same; it’s something he’ll never forget, no matter how many years pass by him.

The blood oozes and drips and taunts him with its sickeningly crimson color, reminding him that he caused it all to pour out from Ouma’s body. Ripping out the cords reminds him of ripping out intestines, and the first time the connection formed in his brain, he couldn’t stop vomiting.

When Momota thinks about the hangar, he’s suddenly aware of every single atom of oxygen that fills his lungs, and once he stops breathing, it’s only when he chooses to gulp it in that his body accepts it.

And the spiral tightens, like that, forever, until he’s sobbing while simultaneously wiping them away, the frustrated flame that rages inside him burning itself out.

Sometimes it takes a day to have the worst of his thoughts. Sometimes two.

But in the end, those memories rip open Momota’s skin and dissect him organ by organ, flaw by flaw, screaming at him in his head about how many mistakes he’s made and how they all tie the shit show he is now all together. They leave his body a mess just to ruin it once more; a mess not yet ruined enough to the point of no return.

The whistling of the breeze and the crunching of the leaves finally become clear again as Kaito realizes he’s been in his head for so long, but he doesn’t feel lost.

His mind is a labyrinth, and even though he knows it inside out, he’s not sure he can let himself free anymore.

Because, really, when it comes down to it, does he really deserve to be? To breathe without metal on his tongue and sobbing as he remembers the time he fucking killed someone, to have a house clean of bottles and a mind just the same, to not worry about the eyes, to know who he is, to forgive himself?

He laughs. How the fuck could he ever deserve such a happy life when he couldn’t preserve everyone else’s?

Momota holds himself with a grip he can escape, but all the mistakes he’s made, all the beers that sting his throat, all the eyes he feels staring at him convince him he’s not worthy of the freedom he’s tried so hard to find.

His mind says you’re weak, and he believes it.

You don’t deserve to see Shuichi and Maki. You don’t deserve them caring about you. You don’t deserve anyone, and you fucking know you don’t.

He agrees and lets himself go, walking into the spiral that tightens and curls around him the deeper he goes, the same memories waiting to finally finish the job on his mangled insides that constantly try to claw their way out of the useless body they’re in.


End file.
